FyneFest 2013

A light, conspiratorial rain slants gently across Loch Fyne, briefly obscuring the mountain scene prior to seeping into the soft, hummocky ground. In these parts, water moves inexorably southwards, destiny joining it to the slate grey body of water that curves away into the distance. At the head of the Loch, a tight, sweeping bend in the road is punctuated on the landward side by an easy-to-miss gravel turnoff. The traveller is led away from the water, into the valley, passing an original stone bridge – now made archaic and obsolete by the necessities of modern-day transport. The maritime, ozone-rich aromas blend out into deeper, more fecund notes of the land; sap, soil, silage.

After a while on the rutted, suspension-trammelling track, the thin road emerges at a farmstead. Low, neatly whitewashed buildings sit – memorials to time, unmoved by years of human agrarian activity, save the occasional re-painting. Alongside the usual outbuildings, a gleaming, panelled upstart. Although the day is dull, the neat, thoughtful contours of this new addition yield a welcoming, quietly confident feeling. In the distance, the muffled sounds of music, mingled with the occasional vehicle. The sporadic barking of over-excited dogs also breaks the silence, just as a couple of jet-black spaniels emerge from amongst the blindingly white stone barns. This; this is Fyne Ales. For the weekend, nirvana.

Following the track onwards, a group of local workers direct incomers to the designated parking areas, reached through a farm gate via an almost impossibly sharp left-hand turn. Every other car scrapes its chassis on the ground, slowly wearing away the land upon which these marvellous beers are made. Eventually, one presumes, this single action will build to such an extent, the very earth beneath the brewery should be entirely eroded, Fyne Ales to become a geological victim of their own success. Still, such consequence would take many iterations of the FyneFest to come to pass.

In the field beyond, a large white marquee, the top visible at first, then its entirety revealed following negotiation of a short, slick slope. Other, smaller, tents hold commissars to check accreditation, sustenance for weary festival goers, and a welcome chance to perform ablutions. Again, dogs abound everywhere. A tall man sporting an orange bowler hat meanders past, babbling in tongues about his ‘rating’. In that outfit, surely a Colonel, at least. Other attendees are there, sitting in camp chairs, perched on every seat, enjoying the products of the brewery; and of course, beers from invited peers located elsewhere.

As the day blends seamlessly into the forbidding Argyll night, the devils’ purge appear, as if from nowhere. The Scottish midge. The toothless terror of the Highlands. However, a cry goes up for fire, torches are lit, and guttural flame leaps from a woodstack. As the fingertip-chilling coastal wind arises, the glaring yellow fire surges upwards, driving the voracious insects away. Groups stand, huddled together, enjoying the company, the aspect, the ale. New friends are made. Old ones forgotten. A man proclaims craft beer to be the future. He is silenced, swiftly, with cudgels. The drinkers retire to their canvas.

The following morning; the beer festival’s nadir, as any would tell. Queues arise for the life-saving coffee, and bacon. Bruises are laughed off, beer notes compared. Dogs are found again, their nocturnal adventures questioned – but never answered. Car engines spark into life, tents and belongings gathered, leaving behind neatly rectangular patches of yellowed grass. Lungs are refreshed by gulps of sweet, Argyll air, sucked through cigarettes. Acquaintances are suspended for another year, campers return to citizens. The valley falls silent; until next year.

This weekend past, Fyne Ales’ annual FyneFest took place at their Argyll brewery. I wasn’t able to attend; unfortunately the fates conspired to keep me away for once. As I’d planned to write about the festival, that left me in a quadry. So, the spirit of this post is after this one, written by Craig Garvie, imagining what he would have tasted on a trip to Copenhagen, had it not been thwarted by the 2011 Icelandic volcano ashcloud. Hopefully next year, I’ll be at FyneFest again…

For reports of the festival from those who were actually there, check out Craig’s blog post here, Adam’s post here, and Robbie’s here…